


Harry Potter and the Drag Lord Prince

by Katsitting (Nekositting)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Chatting & Messaging, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Drag Lord Voldemort, Drag Queen Death Eaters, Drag Queens, Dubious Consent, M/M, Makeup Artist Tom, Not Beta Read, Sexual Content, Unresolved Sexual Tension, terrible puns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-11-23 14:43:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11404578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nekositting/pseuds/Katsitting
Summary: "Quite right." Riddle replied, before grabbing his black beauty blender and blending his concealer into his skin. "The boy will submit to me completely. And that includes those disastrous brows." Riddle smirked, setting the sponge down after smoothing the colors until there were no lines on his face.Or:This is a tale of makeup, melodrama, and murder.Tom Riddle is a makeup connoisseur. Harry is the unwilling target of his affections. Lord Voldemort is Tom Riddle's drag persona.Harry never stood a chance.





	1. Rouge For Your Liege

**Author's Note:**

> This is absolute crack and unlike the majority of what I write for this fandom. This started off as a simple shitpost and it has evolved into...this. I hope you get as much a good laugh out of this as I am because you're in for quite the ride.
> 
> Be prepared for intrigue, for drama, and for a flustered Harry that has no clue what he is getting himself into.
> 
> This is rated E for a reason.

**This could totally combine with the leather.**

"Leather?" Riddle scoffs, raising a perfectly sculpted brow he spent _hours_ shaping. "Unless it is lined with satin woven by the most skilled Wizarding seamstress, I would never fall so low."

"...however, if it will get the bloody _child_ to notice how much effort it takes me every morning. Perhaps, I shall consider it." Riddle purses his blood red lips, before sighing rather dramatically.

 

* * *

 

**I'm thinking about Snow White Tom now.**

"Snow White? I am not quite convinced." Riddle turns his attention to his mirror as he speaks, regarding the different patches of color on his face. He hadn't finished his contour yet, and _lord_ it was taking ages to bake. "Everyone knows Maleficent is a much better choice."

 

* * *

 

**I want to pin all of these.**

Riddle stopped for a moment, suddenly seized by a bright idea. "Perhaps I should _pin_ Harry here. Seal him in this room. I'm sure there will be much more for him to learn." Riddle gestured to all the makeup products in the room, books lying about with pictures of refined makeup models.

* * *

 

**I** **just imagined Tom trying to put lipstick on Harry, but Harry bites off a chunk and spits it out.**

 "Do you _realize_ how much this costs?" Riddle sneered, suddenly possessed with rage. "If he dares to do such a thing, nothing short of his blood could ever satisfy me." Riddle grabbed a brush then, removing the thin layer he'd applied on his cheeks. "...Though, this tube does remind me of that delicious liquid running through his veins."

 

* * *

 

**I love drawing Harry with undone, huge eyebrows. I bet Riddle would feel uncomfortable with them.**

"Quite right." Riddle replied, before grabbing his black beauty blender and blending his concealer into his skin. "The boy will submit to me _completely_. And that includes those disastrous brows." Riddle smirked, setting the sponge down after smoothing the colors until there were no lines on his face.

 

* * *

**Imagine Harry shaving off Tom's eyebrows.**

"When you have no brows, it opens many doors." Riddle grabbed his better than sex mascara, choosing to forego eyeshadow and eyeliner this time. Sometimes even he could be tired of his dramatics. "I can simply _draw_ my own if the urge ever manifests."

 

* * *

"A-are you wearing makeup, Riddle?" Harry finally asked, no longer able to remain silent on the matter. Riddle raised a perfectly sculpted brow in response, before winking at him. Harry tried not to gape. "Oh? So there _is_ still hope for you yet." Riddle purred, his blood red lips curling into a wicked grin. All Harry could think of was just how white his teeth looked.

Harry pinched himself, just to be sure he wasn't dreaming.

"Do you like the color?" Riddle purred, stepping closer to Harry's shocked form. Riddle practically preened when Harry tried to form some sort of response, but failed. "Jeffree Star's Red Rum. Just recently released these in créeme form. It feels quite nice on my lips. Would you like to try it, Harry?" Riddle smirked when Harry's cheeks flushed with color, resembling the rosy hue of Riddle's lips the longer they remained in the darkened corridor.

 _How...endearing_ , Riddle thought.

"Ah, erm." Harry felt Riddle press so close to him that he could smell a faint fragrance. It was light, something that Harry himself would never have associated with Riddle. Almost fruity? Harry tried to make out just _where_ he had smelled this scent before, but when Riddle pressed his fingers to Harry's cheek and lightly trailed his fingers over to Harry's parted lips, all thought fled Harry's mind. "You're looking quite flushed, Harry." Harry wanted to say something, but then Riddle leaned in closer. Harry's tongue refused to move.

"Perhaps I should hold off on the blush? It seems you don't quite need it." Riddle mused, eyes twinkling with something mischievous

"You have such lovely skin, Harry. It is the _perfect_ canvas." Harry was reeling, his stomach fluttering strangely at the feeling of Riddle's fingers teasing his lips. He didn't know why the action had floored him so completely, why he didn't think to move away. Harry should have smacked Riddle's hand away instantly rather than allow this. "I could make you into something exquisite. I could make you into _art_ , Harry. You need only say the word." Harry choked on his saliva in disbelief, the shock of it enough to propel Harry away from Riddle's bold fingers. "That's not quite necessary." Harry refused immediately, cursing when he realized just how warm his cheeks felt.

"Are you quite sure? I could make the world worship you." Riddle's voice was smooth, a heat in the depths of his eyes that made Harry sweat nervously. "They would be blinded by the glow of your cheeks, mesmerized by the rosy hue of your lips, if you allowed me to touch you." Harry shook his head firmly, unable to speak because this was just bloody ridiculous. "With the right shade, I could really make your eyes shine. You already have long and thick lashes, a little mascara can go a long way."

"No." Harry's response was firm, his lips pressed into a hard line despite the redness of his cheeks.

"I absolutely refuse." Harry finally gathered the courage to shove past Riddle, ignoring the sound of Riddle's laughter as he fled. Harry wondered if he could ask Ron to erase these last few minutes from his memory. He doubted he could ever look at Riddle without recalling this...bizarre conversation. Harry was halfway down the corridor when he heard Riddle call out, his voice silky.

"You know where to find me, should you ever change your mind." Harry needed a drink.

Badly.


	2. Cat That Ate The Cream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crack saga continues. I give you Drag Mort. Enjoy!
> 
> (If you noticed the word count plummet, it is because it did after I noticed I tacked on chapter 1 into this one. Whoops.)

When Harry heard that there would be a performance at the center of Hogsmeade, he felt both excited and nervous for it. He had never personally witnessed a wizarding show—aware only of the different muggle performances the Dursley's often went to.

Harry, of course, had never been allowed to personally attend, but he knew enough. The Dursley's were not particularly the most silent bunch. Often describing the grandeur of the theatre and the skills of the actors.

But this performance—would it be anything like what the Dursley's described? Harry supposed not, considering that everything here was _magical_. There would be no doubt that this would be a night he would never forget.

And then they arrived, well, Harry felt vindicated at the fact that _surely_ none of the muggle performances the Dursley’s attended could compare to this.

"Mate, are you okay?" Harry faintly heard Ron ask, but Harry did not have the presence of mind to truly acknowledge his friend.

Harry was awed by what he was seeing, unable to quite comprehend that he had been missing something this magnificent. If this was how _all_ wizarding theatres looked, then Harry would never miss a performance in Hogsmeade again.

Harry was sitting at the front row nearest to the stage, eyeing the way the columns at either end of the stage suffused the air with power. It reminded Harry of those old Roman fixtures he had seen pictures of—the resplendence enough to strike all that gazed upon them dumb.

But this was not something of the past, but of the present.

"I'm fine, just a little surprised is all." Harry managed to whisper after drinking in his fill of the room, waiting with great anticipation for the performers to get on stage.

Harry paused, then.

Harry didn't know what to make of what he was seeing.

He had expected to see groups of wizards and witches come onto stage. But there was only one figure on stage once the lights dimmed. The person was completely shrouded in darkness, the room falling into silence the only indication that the show was about to begin.

Harry felt his excitement running through his veins, waiting with great anticipation for what was to come despite his confusion. He could faintly hear Ron mutter something under his breath, but he ignored it in favor of focusing his attention to the figure on stage.

"And now, for the moment you have all been eagerly waiting for. I give you, Lord Voldemort!" Harry heard a voice shout into the silence and then, Harry felt all the color drain from his cheeks.

If Harry had known that it was _this_ sort of show, he never would have agreed to come at all. Hell, he would have planted his arse in The Three Broomsticks and called it a night.

But that was not the case.

Before him, several feet away, stood the lone figure on stage, dressed entirely in skin tight leather with the highest thigh-high boots Harry had ever seen. The heels at least five inches high.

Harry's heart felt like it was about to give on him. He was unable to look away, noticing then how inhuman the man looked.

Lord Voldemort resembled more a serpent than a man, a strange conglomeration of the two. He had bright red eyes and slits for a nose--the sheen of his skin silvery beneath the glow of the one light above the man. It was only when the man began to walk towards the front of the stage that Harry noticed Lord Voldemort was wearing makeup.

Harry regretted instantly sitting front row.

" _Ron!_ " Harry whispered fiercely, trying to get the ginger's attention as Voldemort strutted to the front row, his cheek bones glowing a bright silver, so heavily contoured that Harry wondered idly if those cheeks could cut stone.

Voldemort's eyes were fringed with thick, heavy lashes that accentuated rather than detracted Voldemort's smokey eyeshadow. Harry was dismayed at the fact that he even noticed this at all, but it was only natural that he'd take note of such a thing. He'd spent too long staring at Riddle's face most of the term to not pick up a couple things.

A secret, he would take to the grave.

And then Voldemort's crimson eyes were on his, and Harry felt all the air leave his lungs.

Harry tried to look away, but there was something holding him back. Perhaps, it was the sudden brilliant smile that lit the man's face—or the bright red lipstick. Harry could not be sure.

Harry's cheeks colored a bright red when Voldemort winked at him then, the tight leather corset over the skin-tight catsuit scrunching in the complete silence that had fallen in the room.

The music had yet to play. And rather than stand around in silence, the man chose instead to stare deeply into Harry's eyes. The crimson in the orb swallowing Harry up so rapidly that he didn’t even notice Voldemort lift his arm into the air, his bare fingers pale as his face.

As if summoned by the simply gesture, a bright light suddenly flashed, practically blinding Harry and all the onlookers in the room. Harry immediately closed his eyes in a poor attempt to blink away the dark spots dancing in his vision.

Once Harry blinked away the spots in his eyes, he noticed immediately that almost directly in front of Harry, stood a long metal pole.

Voldemort, finally, turned his powerful gaze away, allowing Harry a chance to take in the breath he did not realize he was holding, to walk around the pole. Seeming to look out to the crowd as if in acknowledgement before returning his burning stare back to Harry’s own, rather wide, eyes.

The man hardly seemed to notice that there was a large audience outside of Harry, the boy helplessly watching how Voldemort’s legs slid around the pole. "Such an obedient audience, are you prepared to worship your lord?" Voldemort's voice was all silk and dark promises, carrying out to the deathly silent audience.

Harry could practically feel the tension in the air.

No one said a word for a few scant seconds before the audience suddenly erupted with cheers.

Harry could hear several—was that _Malfoy!?_ —calling for Lord Voldemort to begin. For the man to look upon them and give them the attention Voldemort seemed to be reserving solely for Harry. But the man did not spare the rest of them a glance, the brows he had drawn on his face raised up questioningly when Harry had not erupted with cheers as had everyone else.

Was the man expecting Harry to do something?

 Harry was not sure of what to do, almost tempted to turn his attention away to ask Ron just what to bloody do. But Harry did not know what would happen if he looked away—there was something in Voldemort's eyes that urged Harry from doing so.

And Harry, trusting his instincts more than anything, listened.

It was in the instant that Harry tried to come up with something to say that he finally noticed a long zipper to one side of Voldemort's leg. Completely distracted by the fact that there could even be one there at all.

Harry swallowed the words back into his lungs, and simply shook his head. He didn't trust himself to speak. It was all Voldemort needed him to do before Voldemort smirked and pressed his hand to the pole to slide his hips closer to it.

And then, almost as if summoned, smoke began to creep through to the center of the stage. It was a heavy green, suffusing through the air like some malignant specter. Harry felt like he was going to choke from how thick it was, the texture heavy in the back of his throat as a group of seven robed individuals suddenly flew in from the darkened corners of the stage. They wore white masks, the color streaking through the darkness and the emerald smoke.

Voldemort did not react to them, his lips curved into a self-satisfied smirk as he slid the hand holding the pole upwards, and curled his leg around it. Harry felt lightheaded in that instance, faintly hearing Ron curse under his breath when the heavy bass started to pulse in sync to the rapid beating of Harry's heart before settling to a slow crawl.

When had the music even started?

It was the calm before the storm, in Harry's honest opinion, completely thrown by the instrumental playing. The song sounded familiar, something he recalled Dudley had listened to once before, before his parents quickly shut the song off.

"You let me _violate_ you."

And then, Voldemort was spinning on the pole, bending upwards so one leg was parallel with the pole. "You let me _desecrate_ you." Harry felt completely ruined, the image of a toned leg wrapped in tight leather high in the air burned into his mind as he watched. Voldemort's eyes never turned away from Harry's own gaze as the man sang, arching his back before dropping the leg high in the air, and wrapping both around the pole.

He held onto the pole with one hand, spinning before the cloaked figures in the back were suddenly at either side of Voldemort, three grabbing onto the arm the man had stretched outwards as he spun, and another three grabbing both his legs when Voldemort had ceased to spin.

Harry's jaw felt like it was somewhere on the ground. He was tempted to look away to be sure he had not in fact lost it somewhere, but he abandoned that useless endeavor when the heavy cloaks the dancers were wearing evaporated to reveal a group of men dressed in tight, black latex rompers. The material leaving so little to the imagination that Harry's face burned hot.

 Voldemort winked at him before singing "You let me _penetrate_ you," motioning for Harry to come onto the stage with a come-hither motion from his finger.

Harry knew that Voldemort was gesturing for him to get on stage. He could see it in the burn of his gaze, the red in his eyes made more crimson by the charcoal around the man's eyes. But Harry was frozen in place, a cross between running the hell out from the place and remaining perfectly where he sat.

He did not, at any moment, consider actually getting up and going up that stage. But when he felt hands settle onto his shoulders, the force of it propelling him towards the stairs that were a couple feet away from where he was seated, he knew he did not have a choice.

His fate was sealed.

The dancers helped Voldemort to his feet, their hands pushing and prodding at the skin Voldemort willingly offered to the dancers. Their hips were gyrating to the intoxicating beat of the song, Voldemort moving his lips perfectly in sync with the artist crooning the lyrics as he moved his hips, kicked his heeled feet in the air.

Harry did not realize he was on stage until he felt Voldemort's fingers latch tightly onto his shoulder, the touch burning Harry through the material of his robes. Voldemort's eyes were glittering with something feral, the glitter at the corner of Voldemort's eyes doing little to settle Harry's nerves when he felt rather than saw the dancers swarm him.

The dancers' fingers embedded themselves into his hair, touched and teased at his ribs through his robes, and—Harry gaped, a protest leaving his lips when they pressed their hands against Harry's thighs. "W-what--" Harry was beyond mortified when the dancers practically molested him in front of an audience, Voldemort gyrating his hips to the beat of the music before pressing his body ever closer to Harry's own.

Harry felt like he might pass out at that very instance—his brain unable to comprehend just _what_ was happening.

"I want to _fuck_ you like an animal."

Harry felt something hot and hard press against his stomach, and he knew that he did not need to look down to know just what that was. Voldemort ground it there, lifting his hands high above his head as if he were reaching for something before dropping to his knees in front of Harry's splayed legs. The dancers held his legs open, their fingers tight on his thighs despite the fact that Harry stopped resisting from the moment he realized Voldemort was hard.

"You can have the hate that it brings."

He was moving, twisting and bending between Harry's legs like an expert courtesan—the feeling of Voldemort's clawed nails digging into the fabric of his trousers doing little for Harry's sanity.

"You can have my absence of faith."

Voldemort trailed one hand up his thigh until it was a breath away from the zipper of his pants, playing with the button of his trousers for what felt like an eternity, before twisting his body around to press his arse against Harry's hips.

Harry felt a dancer suddenly dig his hands into his hair, the sharp pain enough to rip a startled cry from Harry's lips, as he was forced to arch his back and press his hips flush against Vodemort's undulating hips.

"You can have my everything."

Harry was jolted from his stupor from the sensation of Voldemort's arse on his crotch, the pressure enough to make something warm curl in his stomach.

Harry wanted the ground to swallow him up. The force of Voldemort's allure enough to erase all thought outside of the man currently giving him the best lap dance of his life.

Harry felt himself respond to the way Voldemort rubbed his arse against him, mortified when he hardened from the constant stimulation.

"Help me, it's your sex I can smell."

Harry caught the lyrics, but didn't have the time to feel appropriately ashamed when suddenly, Voldemort was pressing closer. So closely that there was no space between their bodies—Voldemort's back flush against Harry's front.

Harry gasped when Voldemort twisted his arm back to replace the  hand that had sunken into his hair earlier, the sensation drawing shivers up Harry's spine. The claws scratched pleasantly against his scalp, the sensation feeling so good that Harry could not stop himself from parting his lips to release a soft, appreciative moan.

He regretted instantly what he had done, but there was no taking the sound back now. Then Voldemort's hand was forcing Harry's face closer, the man's red lips flashing before Harry's gaze to indicate that Voldemort had turned his head to look at Harry's flushed face.

Their lips were so close that Harry could taste the inside of Voldemort's mouth—chocolate and mint coating the back of his tongue.

"I want to feel you from the inside."

Harry gasped, gaze trapped by Voldemort's smoldering red gaze as he tried to breathe. He wanted to speak, to say something over the loud music as Voldemort continued to recite the lyrics to the song as if they were the most complex magic, but he failed miserably each time.

He had no words to give, his mind blissfully blank and unaware that he was in fact still on stage.

The hands holding Harry firmly in place were ignored, dissipating like the thick green smoke oozing from the stage like blood. There was something pulling Harry into Voldemort's eyes, as if he were falling into the endless pools rather than standing quite still on the stage as Voldemort twisted his hips—kicked his leg out to show a tantalizing thigh to the audience—as he moved.

Harry was so engrossed by the man's eyes that Harry did not notice Voldemort pull his face forward until it was too late, his lips pressing against surprisingly warm lips that melted all remaining resistance from Harry's thoughts.

Why was he even fighting this?

He could not help but respond back, the tightness in his trousers urging him to move simultaneously with the man moving so pleasantly between his thighs.

"I drink the honey inside your hive." Voldemort murmured against Harry's lips, tongue teasing along the rim of Harry's lips before pulling away entirely. Voldemort's body moving to the beat of the song as he cat-walked away from Harry's shocked form, to transfigure a long, thin rod out of thin air before cracking it in the air.

It resembled a wand, but something inside Harry told him that it most definitely wasn't. Wands definitely did not crack like that. "You are the reason" Voldemort sang, lips moving in time with the music as he twisted and twirled right back to Harry. "I stay alive." And then the rod was smoothing over Harry's cheek, Voldemort's lips curved into a devious smirk that made all the blood in Harry's veins rush south.

The sound of Trent Reznor's voice faded completely from the stage, the only reprieve Harry had before the music shifted again to something Harry never expected to hear.

"Every time they turn the lights down, just want to go that extra mile for you."

Harry felt the dancers begin to move then, as if some covert signal had been given. They were forcing Harry back, their fingers so tight on Harry's skin that he knew he'd have bruises for weeks if he survived the night.

He was twisted around, his back turned to face Voldemort as they forced him against something comfortable—the surface plush and leathery against his cheek. He was breathing so hard that his vision blurred at its edges, his anxious energy making it difficult to hold still despite the rather firm grip the dancers had on his arms and legs.

They were no longer groping him, but he could feel the way their bodies moved in time to the beat of the music in background, Britney Spear's voice the only thing keeping Harry together. He couldn't quite see Voldemort at his back, but gauging from the sounds of cheering that suddenly broke out in the time Harry was pressed to the soft surface, Voldemort was still performing for the crowd.

Harry was relieved that the fire was no longer on him. Though he couldn’t help but wonder if this was the calm before the storm. There was something tingling over his skin, an energy not his own that made the dancers holding him down practically vibrate.

Harry could feel the storm brewing there and he was unable to resist its pull as he jerked along with the dancers.

"W-hat is--?" Harry could not finish his statement, the feeling of his shirt suddenly vanishing eliciting a gasp mid question.

He felt exposed—the hungry gaze of the audience practically a caress. Harry could see their blurred faces with the way his face was pressed into the surface, his glasses still miraculously on his face despite being shoved and moved about like a rag doll.

"Cameras are flashin' while we're dirty dancing, they keep on _watching_." Harry heard Voldemort whisper the lyrics into his ear and Harry trembled, feeling the rod's smooth surface trace along his spine.

“They keep on _watching._ ” Harry felt Voldemort’s hot breath on his neck, and could not bite back his moan when Voldemort pressed his lips briefly against his quivering skin, tasting the nervous sweat beading at his neck.

The moan came out breathless, a mixture of a plea and cry when he heard Voldemort chuckle through the blaring music, his teeth grazing him _just so_ as he did. It was a high voice—a decadent sound that Harry never would have anticipated liking. He doubted he would ever forget it.

Though it was arguable that this night would be unforgettable, regardless.

And then Voldemort was stepping away, taking his warmth with him as he exposed Harry to the hungry eyes of the audience.

Harry could not stifle the shudder that crawled up his spine—cold now that he was no longer soaking in Voldemort’s warmth or had a shirt on to hide his flushed skin. “Feels like the crowd is saying…” It was the only warning Harry had before the lights suddenly shut off, plunging the room in total darkness. He cried out when he felt a sharp pain burn cut across his shoulder blades suddenly.

The burn was jarring and unpleasant despite the haze that had settled in his gut, the contrast between pleasure and pain, a fine one.

“Gimme, gimme _, more. Gimme more.”_

Harry twisted and jerked in the hold of the dancers, mouth opening to release a silent cry when he felt one, then two, then three, and then an insurmountable amount of hits rain across the exposed flesh of his back. He could hear the music playing faintly in the background, but had neither the interest nor the wherewithal to figure out just where they were in the music.

The sensation of the rod hitting his flesh took up more than his attention—seeming to home in on just where it hurt him most.

He groaned when a particular hit smacked him right in the ribs. Embarrassment a hissing serpent in his gut.

If he was only suffering, Harry would not have minded this display as much. He’d simply grit his teeth and bear through it to the end—a little bruised and embarrassed, but he’d live.

However, to Harry’s dismay, that was simply _not_ the case. Harry could feel a cloying sweetness pooling south, the electricity of Voldemort’s abuse doing strange things to him as he continued to draw pained grunts from Harry’s lips.

The sensation at the pit of his stomach felt familiar, like the heart-wrenching moment before plunging low to the ground after a snitch. But for all its similarity, this was something else entirely too—it felt like he was burning up, and he hated it. Loathed the fact that he was so affected.

Harry released a breath he did not know he was holding when Voldemort suddenly stopped hitting him for a moment, finally noticing that the beat shifted again. He had just about relaxed in the dancer’s hold when instead of feeling the firm rod press against his skin, fully expecting it, he felt a bare finger trail up from where the waistband of his trousers to the nape of his neck.

He could not help the way he tried to twist away from the contact, feeling his stomach flip with his desire to back into it and run away. The sharpness of Voldemort’s claws making the heat twisting in the pit of his stomach swell.

It was humiliating.

Then, Voldemort’s fingers were in his hair again, sinking into his unruly mane, before pulling until Harry could not help but arch his back from the force of it. “I just want _more_!”

“Gimme gimme, gimme.”

 Voldemort closed the distance between their bodies, his mouth sinking into Harry’s neck to bite at the skin, sucking in the flesh hard enough to bruise as Harry was pressed more firmly against Voldemort’s chest. He could feel Voldemort’s breasts against his back, the softness to them making something clench in his stomach.

Harry tried to say something, lost again to the beat of the music as Britney Spears repeated the words over and over, but his breath caught when Voldemort’s other hand was suddenly skimming along the bare skin of his waist.

The long fingers were gentle as they traced each individual ribcage, skimming past his left nipple as he did, before settling on his navel, dangerously close to the waistband of his trousers.

Harry felt like the touch had physically burned him, his skin hot to the touch as he swallowed and tried to compose himself. Key word being tried.

“W-why are you doing this?” Harry muttered, shocked that he managed to get the words out despite how heavy his tongue felt in his mouth. Harry knew the man could not have possibly heard him, not when Britney was still singing. But he sincerely hoped that he was heard, he doubted he could take much more of this.

“Gimme gimme, gimme.”

Harry shouted when Voldemort yanked his head more harshly back, Voldemort’s teeth clenching so hard on his neck that it threatened to break the skin—already feeling a bruise forming where Voldemort's mouth tasted his skin. “Because I want to watch you _break_.” Harry whimpered at the unmistakable desire in the man's voice.

Voldemort’s hand unbuttoned the top of Harry’s trousers, the hand slipping the button from its place so quickly that Harry would have missed it had he not been so hyperaware of that hand. Harry swallowed hard when Voldemort scratched along his skin, the motion almost pensive, as he teased along the exposed skin. The ticklish feeling enough to renew his squirming once more as Voldemort then slowly began to unzip Harry’s trousers, cool air meeting hot skin as Voldemort practically bared Harry’s shame to the audience.

Harry hoped sincerely that no one could see it—that no could note the obvious tent in his trousers as Voldemort continued to rock his hips into his arse as he undid him in front of the crowd. “You don’t even know me—” Harry whispered, convinced that despite the loud blaring of the speakers, Voldemort could somehow hear him.

It was both distressing and convenient—knowing for a fact that Voldemort had likely heard every sharp inhale, every breathy moan, and every soft whimper he’d released since coming on stage.

“But I do, _Harry_ , better than you even know yourself.” Harry made to protest, but the sound came out more a hiss when Voldemort’s hand slipped inside the parted fly of his trousers to prod at his clothed cock.

Harry immediately closed his eyes, embarrassed that he was practically coming apart at the seams in front of complete strangers and his own classmates. Harry doubted he could ever look anyone in Hogwarts in the eye again. Not without Harry knowing for a fact that they’d seen Voldemort touch him—watched the way Voldemort debauched him.

"Scream for me, Harry. I want to hear your voice through the jeers of the crowd." Voldemort purred into his ear and Harry grit his teeth to prevent himself from doing exactly that when Voldemort suddenly whirled them around, hand still clutching harshly at the strands of Harry's hair as Harry was forced to face the gazes of the crowd.

Harry felt faint, cock hard and straining in his trousers as Voldemort continued to tease him through his boxers in spite of the new position. It was unbearable—his blood boiling beneath his skin at the threat of Voldemort sinking his bare fingers down there. Of Voldemort's naked flesh on his own naked skin, no barriers to prevent the contact.

Harry felt like he was being pulled in two directions, the voice of reason in his mind shouting for him to struggle while a louder, breathier croon urged him to give in.

The air felt cold against his naked chest, goose flesh forming along his skin now that he was no longer pressed into the leathery surface, or held down by the dancers. Harry was facing the crowd entirely—the urge to open his eyes a tempting one, but he held fast.

If he looked, it would only prove that what was happening was real.

Voldemort's arm wrapped around his middle then, his grip on Harry's hair so tight that Harry did not think to struggle. There were no other bodies holding him down, nothing but the arm at his waist and the hand in his hair. It would be easy for him to fight him—but the _crowd_. Harry didn't want to make this into more of a spectacle than it was.

The music shifted again, the beat slowing into a crawl and the sound darkening into something distinctly not Pop.

Harry tensed when Voldemort's hand teased along his boxers, sinking one lone finger below the waistband.

"Walking, _waiting_ , alone without a care." Voldemort sang into his ear, the gesture forcing Harry to open his mouth, to say something as Voldemort ground his hips into his arse.

“I-I’m a student. This is w-wrong.” Harry hissed, unable to repress his shudder when Voldemort’s fingers delved lower into his boxers, the finger so close to his cock that it made Harry tense with horrified anticipation. “Do you r-realize what you’re doing!?” Harry continued, shoulders tense as the man caressed the sensitive skin.

He felt like a tight spring—ready to snap in that very second, dreading and anticipating the moment Voldemort would shame him further.

Harry could see into the crowd, but he could not identify a single face among the looming bodies. His glasses on his face, but it may as well not have been there at all considering how distracted he was by the feeling of Voldemort’s body against his own.

He felt Voldemort’s hand stop just centimeters above where Harry’s thatch of hair began, teasing at the fine hairs lightly as if mulling over whether he should probe further. It was absolute torture.

“Hoping, and hating, things that I can’t _bear._ ” Voldemort’s lips pressed lightly against his neck before Voldemort’s forked tongue licked over where the man’s teeth had been clenching on earlier, tracing over the enflamed skin to trail his moist tongue along Harry’s ear. “Did you think it's cool to walk right up, to take my life and fuck it up?” Harry shivered when he whispered the lyrics, noticing how Voldemort’s fingers in his boxers tensed.

Voldemort’s tongue felt long and wet against his skin, something Harry should have been disgusted by. But there was no time for Harry to ponder on this perfect stranger licking a burning path over his neck. Not when Voldemort slipped his hand inside his boxers to palm his cock, his grasp firm.

“Well did you?” Voldemort sang, and Harry was absolutely lost. He was drowning in his emotions; horrified and pleased at the feeling of Voldemort’s palm suddenly rubbing his cock, jerking him in time with the beat of the music.

In front of an audience, no less.

Harry was bloody mortified. So embarrassed that Harry tried to jerk out of Voldemort’s hold immediately, but Voldemort held him fast—his thin body shockingly stronger than it looked. “Well did _you_?” Harry bit back a groan when Voldemort suddenly sank his teeth into his neck for the consecutive time that evening, mouth closing around a spot higher on his neck than where the man had bitten him previously.

It burned, and Harry wanted nothing more than to tell him to stop. Before he could think to ask him to do just that, however, Voldemort’s jaw unclenched. His wet tongue tracing over the mark Harry knew was there.

“I see hell in your eyes.” Voldemort whispered into his ear, a husky note to the voice that made something within Harry clench. The sound making something build in his gut, the pressure beneath his naval similar to the tight spring before apparition. Like something hooking at his naval, pushing and prodding, before being squeezed through a small tube.

But Voldemort had not apparated them anywhere. They were still in front of a crowd, his hand still pumping him with a shocking ease that belied just how experienced the man was.

It made Harry faintly wonder if Voldemort made it a habit of grabbing unsuspecting spectators and molesting them in the crowd. If this was the true reason why the room was filled to the brim with people of all nationalities excited to watch this man perform? Eager themselves for a chance to get a bite of the apple?

But Harry did not pursue the thought further, ripped from his musings when Voldemort suddenly squeezed him, his hand hot and slick with Harry’s pre-cum as he coaxed sound after sound form Harry’s lips. Harry’s muscles rippling as Voldemort pushed Harry further and further over the edge.

Harry cried out when Voldemort’s nail suddenly pressed against the sensitive head of his cock, the pain a shock to his senses after drowning in the pleasant feeling of Voldemort’s touch for so long already.

“Taken in by surprise.” Voldemort groaned the words out when Harry leaned back, finding the courage to grab Voldemort’s wrist and snake his other arm back to clutch Voldemort by the back of his head, the skin beneath Harry's fingers like velvet.

Harry didn’t know what he looked like in that second, but couldn’t find it in himself to care when Voldemort’s hand just felt so good. When the man's whispered _yess_ into his ear undid him.

“Touching you makes me feel alive.”  And Harry could not help but agree with that.

Voldemort’s touch made him come alive—unable to keep his eyes open any longer when Voldemort sank his teeth into his neck again, teeth pressing hard enough to break skin

“Touching you makes me _die_ inside.”

Harry crested, his mouth parting into a wide “O” from the strength of his orgasm. His essence coating both Voldemort’s hand and the inside of Harry’s trousers, sound muted completely by the power of his climax.

If Voldemort had not been holding onto Harry as tightly as he was, Harry was sure he would have toppled like a useless doll into the ground. His limbs felt weak, trembling with the aftershocks of his orgasm as Voldemort finally removed his hand from his pants, his hand sticky with Harry’s essence. The feeling of his wet fingers trailing across Harry’s skin enough to draw a low moan from Harry’s throat, still rather sensitive from his intense orgasm.

It was almost a shock that he had zoned out so completely from the world around him when Harry finally noticed that the music had moved on to an entirely different bridge in the music.

“I _hate_ you.” Voldemort whispered as he continued to rut into him, his hands still clutching Harry possessively into his chest. Harry was breathing harshly when Voldemort suddenly raised up his soiled hand for the audience to see, Harry’s embarrassment reaching new heights at the way the light caught on his cum.

“W-what the bloody hell are you doing?” Harry hissed underneath his breath, his throat tight with his anger and shame. “I see hell in your eyes,” Voldemort continued as if he hadn’t heard Harry ask him a question.

“Taken in by _surprise._ ”

Harry yelped when Voldemort suddenly shoved him then, Harry’s body bending and feet twisting painfully in a poor attempt to orient himself. He’d managed to turn enough to catch the mischievous gleam in Voldemort’s eyes, before he landed roughly on a chair, his eyes snapping shut from landing so painfully on his arse.

A chair, that seconds earlier Harry was sure, had not been there at all.

His arse felt like it was going to bruise, but at least, his back was now mercifully facing the audience. Harry was grateful for the mercy that that was.

Harry tried to get up from the chair then, no longer restrained by Voldemort’s seductive touch or the arms of the dancers performing at the other side of the stage. However, as if Voldemort had sensed his intentions, shackles rose from the armrests and the back of the chair to snake tightly around his wrists and ankles, the pressure so tight that Harry knew for certain he was not going anywhere.

Dread danced along his gaze when Voldemort smirked at his gaping face, his face looking more demonic in that second, before he pressed his soiled hand to his own face. Harry hoped he wasn’t going to do what he suspected Voldemort was going to do—Harry’s disgust and shock obvious on his face.

“And touching you makes me feel _alive_.” The song crooned, but Harry was sure that if these were Voldemort’s words, they’d likely have been the same. The intensity behind the man’s eyes making his eyes glow a bright crimson beneath the light.

Harry swallowed when Voldemort pressed his soiled hand into his mouth, his unnaturally long tongue peeking out to taste Harry’s essence.

Harry felt like his cheeks were permanently going to be stained a bright pink, watching as Voldemort slurped at his hand as if he were drinking cream between his fingers and not-not…

Harry turned his head away, unable to take any more of this. But then magic was wafting in the air, heavy and foreboding as something forced Harry to turn his head back to face the man.

Voldemort’s face was impassive, but Harry, gauging from the brightness in the man’s gaze, could sense that Voldemort was upset. Harry did not know how he knew—but he just _knew_ and that was worrisome as it was.

When Voldemort finally finished licking his own hand clean, the man winked at him—his wet lips glinting brightly under the flashing lights. Harry could not look away, mouth parting in shock because Voldemort had drank his cum. _In front of an audience._

 Harry forced his gaze away, noting the way Voldemort’s hips twisted to the beat, his back arching as he sang “touching you makes me _die_ inside.”

Harry struggled within his bounds as Voldemort sashayed towards him, almost like moth to a flame considering how not once the man’s attention had strayed to the audience. Harry was honestly shocked no one had complained about that in the crowd.

Their voices oddly silent.

 The music shifted slightly again, and then Voldemort was suddenly on his lap, his legs on either side of Harry’s splayed legs as his hands wrapped softly around his throat—the touch searing Harry to the bone.

“I’ve _slept_ so long without you.”

Harry inhaled a sharp breath, his lungs constricting tightly when Voldemort undulated his hips over Harry’s lap.

Harry watched Voldemort’s muscles ripple as he moved, the way the muscles in his abdomen tensed, the way the man’s forearms pulled taut beneath the smooth material of the catsuit. Harry tried to blink his eyes closed, but each time he tried, Voldemort’s hands around his neck tightened—a promise in the power of those hands that forced Harry to open them and _watch_.

 “It’s _tearing_ me apart too. How’d it get this far? Playing games with this old heart.” Voldemort sang, his expression shifting to one that perfectly mirrored the frustration in the lyrics of the music, his glamorous face looking more forlorn and sinister the longer Harry looked upon him.

“W-what do you want?” Harry croaked, trying to ignore Voldemort’s grip on his throat, to ignore the fingernails that sank deep into the delicate flesh of his neck until it burned. Harry felt something trickle down his neck, but wisely chose not to ponder on just what that was.

“I’ve killed a million petty souls. But I _couldn’t kill you_.” Voldemort pressed his arse down on Harry’s cock, the friction forcing a soft gasp from Harry’s lips. Entirely surprised by the motion as Voldemort began to grind in earnest, his hips rolling in a way that completely captivated Harry’s bewildered gaze.

Harry was getting hard in his trousers once more, the constant motion and the tight feeling of Voldemort’s hands around his neck doing strange things to his sanity the longer Voldemort continued to touch him.

Harry was lost to it all when Voldemort’s fingers tensed, pressing over the artery in his jugular—a lightheadedness seizing him almost instantly when Voldemort continued to push, and _push_ until Harry was suffocating, scrambling just as frantically as his brain for oxygen. Harry’s cock near bursting from the delicious heat building in his gut, and the glittering of malice he could see in Voldemort’s eyes.

 _Am I going to die?_ Harry wondered idly as darkness crept through his vision and Voldemort had yet to release his grip, his body going completely slack on the chair.

  _Funny_ , Harry thought as he tried to cling to his awareness, _that the last thing I will see while alive is the color of Voldemort’s eyes and those bloody lashes_.

“I see hell in your eyes.”

With one more powerful thrust of Voldemort’s hips, Harry saw white. Climaxing for the second time in that night as Voldemort watched him with a smug expression on his face, drinking in the way Harry's lips fell open into a silent cry.

Voldemort hips continued to grind and jerk for several seconds before stopping then, the music fading out into eerie silence as Harry tried to gather his thoughts through the high of nearly fainting on stage. The lightheadedness from being choked and the pleasure thrumming through his veins intoxicating.

 There were no murmurs, no calls for Voldemort to continue his performance—everything sounding muffled to Harry's ears, as he trembled through the force of his orgasm. Harry did not know when he had closed his eyes, but he noted just then how his own lashes fluttered against his cheeks—the feeling reminding him of Voldemort's own lashes as he watched Harry come undone beneath him.

Voldemort's hands had yet to fall away from his neck, but the pressure eased into a soft caress—the nails dragging lightly against his nape now, rather than cutting into the flesh as if he were trying to brand a mark into Harry's body, soft.

"A gift, to the most beautiful boy here." Voldemort crooned before leaning forward to press a soft kiss to his lips, the sensation enough to compel Harry to blink his eyes open and watch Voldemort's face as he drank his fill of Harry’s mouth.

The kiss so unlike the last kiss they'd last shared—tender and almost sweet.

 It left Harry reeling completely as he tried to make sense of what was happening now. Harry looked into his eyes, and could see the promise of more, of a dark hunger coiling its tendrils to consume.

But the man did nothing more than kiss him lightly, one hand slipping from his neck to drag his fingers along Harry's side and down his lap. The pressure eliciting a soft moan from Harry's lips.

Harry wanted to look away from Voldemort's eyes, but the red of his iris consumed him.

"I have seen your _heart_ , and it is mine. You _belong_ to me."

And with those whispered words to Harry's lips, Voldemort vanished like smoke. The green of the vapor drawing gasps from the audience that reminded Harry in that moment, that he wasn't alone.

Harry wished Voldemort had taken him with him.


End file.
